Size 12 and Ready to Rock
Page 17
“It means I’m allowed to get involved if I want to because I have a license to practice private investigation,” he says. “Issued to me by the state of New York. Am I going to have to show it to you?”
“I think you are,” I say gravely. “And possibly your wrist restraints too.”
He grins as he kicks open the door. “Get inside and I will.”
Chapter 6
A Fine Line
He said he liked my lips
He said he liked my eyes
But I had to realize
I was big in the thighs
He said my mind was fine
My voice was sweet like wine
But I was the wrong size
And I’d have to realize
There’s a fine fine line
Between good and great
A fine fine line
Between chance and fate
And to be with him,
I’d have to lose some weight
Because winners win
and losers don’t wait
I said to him
As I sipped my wine
That I understood, and it was time
To say good-bye, ’cause my size is fine
There’s a fine fine line
Between good and great
A fine fine line
Between chance and fate
A fine fine line
Between slide and skate
And winners may win
But losers don’t wait “A Fine Line”
Written by Heather Wells
A week and a half later, I’m staring at my reflection in the full-length mirrors of a local clothing store. Three full-length mirrors, to be exact, side by side, each telling me the same thing: No, no, and definitely not.
“Oh,” the saleswoman says, adjusting the shoulder strap of the floor-skimming, empire-waisted, pure white gown that I’m trying on. “It’s you. It’s just so you.”
It’s so not me.
“You look so beautiful.” The saleswoman busies herself straightening out the folds of the gown I’d found crumpled in the sales rack, marked down to 75 percent off. That’s the only reason I decided to try it on.
Well, that and the fact that it was the only one remotely close to my size. The last time I’d been shopping, I’d barely been able to squeeze into a 14. But I was surprised to see that when I held up this dress—a 12—to me, it looked as if it would fit.
It does.
Looks like the bridal gown designers have finally caught on to the vanity size thing like the rest of the fashion industry, though I’d like to think I’ve dropped a few pounds. I read somewhere that lovemaking burns two hundred calories an hour, a disappointingly low number compared to horseback riding (six hundred). But still impressive.
I have been eating a little less lately, not only because I’ve been too distracted by all the recent activity going on in my bedroom since Cooper and I started hooking up to go see what’s in the fridge, but because the Fischer Hall cafeteria is closed for renovations too, which means I can no longer stroll fifty feet down the hall from my office to grab a free bagel and cream cheese (with bacon). I have to walk all the way across the park to the Pansy Café (the closest place that accepts New York College dining cards).
However, I went to the gyno last week for my annual, and I know I weigh exactly the same as last year, give or take a pound or two.
“You’re having a beach wedding, right?” the saleswoman says, bringing my attention back to the situation at hand. “Then this is perfect, simply perfect.”
I’d explained to her about Cooper’s desire for an elopement. But Cooper’s idea is that we’re going to get married in October on the Cape, making this summery gown about as appropriate as a bikini in Anchorage. I don’t even know what I’d been thinking, trying it on. I must have been seized by wedding madness, brought on by the fact that the store is slashing the prices of all its summer stock to make room for its fall clothes, even though it’s still only July.
Maybe it would look better with one of those cute glittery cardigans they have on all the mannequins . . .
No. No one wears a cardigan with a wedding gown. Except Kate Middleton, but she only wore one with the dress she changed into for the reception. And there isn’t going to be a reception, because so far we haven’t told anyone about our wedding plans, except Christopher Allington and Stephanie Brewer the Sunday before last. But that hadn’t exactly been an invitation.
So what am I doing, trying on wedding dresses? I know, but I don’t want to think about it.
“Let me find you some accessories,” the saleswoman says. It’s like she’s read my mind. “A cardi, in case it gets chilly. And how do you feel about headbands? Maybe one with a bow!”
Really, what can I say? When you spend your lunch hour in a store that specializes in preppy clothes that—you realize belatedly—really look good only on the stick-thin models they always show in the catalogs that are forever sliding through the mail slot of your house, you pretty much get what you deserve. Headbands? Sure. A bow? Why not?
Fortunately, my cell phone starts whooping Beyoncé’s “Run the World.”
“Oh,” I say, glancing at the caller ID. “That’s work. Looks like I gotta get back. Maybe another time.”
The saleswoman looks disappointed. That’s her commission off two hundred whole bucks down the drain. I feel kind of bad, except that she’d been trying to talk me into buying a dress in which I looked like a walking roll of toilet paper.
“Oh,” the saleswoman says, smiling brightly. “Well, come back when you have more time. And bring a friend. Or your mom. It’s a big decision to make on your own.”
I try to keep my own smile in place. Most brides’ mothers haven’t stabbed their daughters in the back, the way mine did. It’s not the saleswoman’s fault.
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks, I will.”
But I won’t be back. The company this woman works for obviously doesn’t make dresses that look good on girls who are a size 12. Or possibly larger.
Safely back out onto the street, a little breathless from my narrow escape, I start down my favorite route back to the office. It’s one that takes me past the window of a small antiques store on Fifth Avenue.
I’m not really a jewelry person, but there’s a display of vintage jewelry in the window of this particular shop that really is breathtaking. And there’s one particular ring in the display that I can’t help staring at longingly every time I walk by.
As I call Sarah back I pause in front of the shop and see that the ring is still there, an oval sapphire with clusters of tiny diamonds on either side of it, set on a platinum band. It’s sitting by itself on a dark green velvet pillow in one corner of the window.
“I think you are,” I say gravely. “And possibly your wrist restraints too.”
He grins as he kicks open the door. “Get inside and I will.”
Chapter 6
A Fine Line
He said he liked my lips
He said he liked my eyes
But I had to realize
I was big in the thighs
He said my mind was fine
My voice was sweet like wine
But I was the wrong size
And I’d have to realize
There’s a fine fine line
Between good and great
A fine fine line
Between chance and fate
And to be with him,
I’d have to lose some weight
Because winners win
and losers don’t wait
I said to him
As I sipped my wine
That I understood, and it was time
To say good-bye, ’cause my size is fine
There’s a fine fine line
Between good and great
A fine fine line
Between chance and fate
A fine fine line
Between slide and skate
And winners may win
But losers don’t wait “A Fine Line”
Written by Heather Wells
A week and a half later, I’m staring at my reflection in the full-length mirrors of a local clothing store. Three full-length mirrors, to be exact, side by side, each telling me the same thing: No, no, and definitely not.
“Oh,” the saleswoman says, adjusting the shoulder strap of the floor-skimming, empire-waisted, pure white gown that I’m trying on. “It’s you. It’s just so you.”
It’s so not me.
“You look so beautiful.” The saleswoman busies herself straightening out the folds of the gown I’d found crumpled in the sales rack, marked down to 75 percent off. That’s the only reason I decided to try it on.
Well, that and the fact that it was the only one remotely close to my size. The last time I’d been shopping, I’d barely been able to squeeze into a 14. But I was surprised to see that when I held up this dress—a 12—to me, it looked as if it would fit.
It does.
Looks like the bridal gown designers have finally caught on to the vanity size thing like the rest of the fashion industry, though I’d like to think I’ve dropped a few pounds. I read somewhere that lovemaking burns two hundred calories an hour, a disappointingly low number compared to horseback riding (six hundred). But still impressive.
I have been eating a little less lately, not only because I’ve been too distracted by all the recent activity going on in my bedroom since Cooper and I started hooking up to go see what’s in the fridge, but because the Fischer Hall cafeteria is closed for renovations too, which means I can no longer stroll fifty feet down the hall from my office to grab a free bagel and cream cheese (with bacon). I have to walk all the way across the park to the Pansy Café (the closest place that accepts New York College dining cards).
However, I went to the gyno last week for my annual, and I know I weigh exactly the same as last year, give or take a pound or two.
“You’re having a beach wedding, right?” the saleswoman says, bringing my attention back to the situation at hand. “Then this is perfect, simply perfect.”
I’d explained to her about Cooper’s desire for an elopement. But Cooper’s idea is that we’re going to get married in October on the Cape, making this summery gown about as appropriate as a bikini in Anchorage. I don’t even know what I’d been thinking, trying it on. I must have been seized by wedding madness, brought on by the fact that the store is slashing the prices of all its summer stock to make room for its fall clothes, even though it’s still only July.
Maybe it would look better with one of those cute glittery cardigans they have on all the mannequins . . .
No. No one wears a cardigan with a wedding gown. Except Kate Middleton, but she only wore one with the dress she changed into for the reception. And there isn’t going to be a reception, because so far we haven’t told anyone about our wedding plans, except Christopher Allington and Stephanie Brewer the Sunday before last. But that hadn’t exactly been an invitation.
So what am I doing, trying on wedding dresses? I know, but I don’t want to think about it.
“Let me find you some accessories,” the saleswoman says. It’s like she’s read my mind. “A cardi, in case it gets chilly. And how do you feel about headbands? Maybe one with a bow!”
Really, what can I say? When you spend your lunch hour in a store that specializes in preppy clothes that—you realize belatedly—really look good only on the stick-thin models they always show in the catalogs that are forever sliding through the mail slot of your house, you pretty much get what you deserve. Headbands? Sure. A bow? Why not?
Fortunately, my cell phone starts whooping Beyoncé’s “Run the World.”
“Oh,” I say, glancing at the caller ID. “That’s work. Looks like I gotta get back. Maybe another time.”
The saleswoman looks disappointed. That’s her commission off two hundred whole bucks down the drain. I feel kind of bad, except that she’d been trying to talk me into buying a dress in which I looked like a walking roll of toilet paper.
“Oh,” the saleswoman says, smiling brightly. “Well, come back when you have more time. And bring a friend. Or your mom. It’s a big decision to make on your own.”
I try to keep my own smile in place. Most brides’ mothers haven’t stabbed their daughters in the back, the way mine did. It’s not the saleswoman’s fault.
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks, I will.”
But I won’t be back. The company this woman works for obviously doesn’t make dresses that look good on girls who are a size 12. Or possibly larger.
Safely back out onto the street, a little breathless from my narrow escape, I start down my favorite route back to the office. It’s one that takes me past the window of a small antiques store on Fifth Avenue.
I’m not really a jewelry person, but there’s a display of vintage jewelry in the window of this particular shop that really is breathtaking. And there’s one particular ring in the display that I can’t help staring at longingly every time I walk by.
As I call Sarah back I pause in front of the shop and see that the ring is still there, an oval sapphire with clusters of tiny diamonds on either side of it, set on a platinum band. It’s sitting by itself on a dark green velvet pillow in one corner of the window.
